Falling Slowly
by Mrs Weasley's Protegee
Summary: AU. Martin/Sam. Sam's got to go under cover to solve a case. Martin's breaking down. I suck at summaries, sorry.
1. Chapter 1

"Goddamn it, Samantha

_Alright, I figured it would be prudent to go ahead and thank my unofficial beta, protegee's partner in crime ____ who helps me with plot and gives good suggestions, pretty much whatever I need. This particular Martin/Sam doesn't exactly go along with the series, but I was thinking about what would have happened if they'd been together before she got shot…not exactly the same situation, but similar fall out. Enjoy! Reviews are much appreciated ___

"God_damn_ it, Samantha!"

Martin brought his fist crashing onto the coffee table of his living room.

They had been over this before, the day she accepted the job, but she had never seen him like this. Never.

"_Sam…I don't like this. I don't like this at all."_

"_What am I supposed to do, Martin? Just turn down the job?"_

"_Yes!"_

"_No! What? And let these sons of bitches get away with this? NO! Don't push me, Martin, not with this," she had warned._

"_Sam…"_

"_Look, I know you don't want me to do this, and I don't blame you, I'm not so hot on it myself. But if going under cover is going to get these women out of danger, then it's more than a fair trade."_

"_I just…I just don't want you to get hurt."_

This evening's argument had gone in much the same direction, but Martin was in way worse shape. He hadn't said anything about it, but now that they had collected the evidence, readied her back round, figured out all they could about the drug cartel and Walker's sex trafficking. Fifteen women had already been found dead, stuffed down gutters, thrown into ditches, and that's just what had been found. The number of bodies were expected to exceed a hundred…he hadn't said anything.

But now, he didn't look like he had slept at all. She cursed herself for not making sure he had gone to sleep. Every night since then, he had wrapped his arms around her, filling the air with his calm, reassuring smell…she had fallen asleep so easily. What a fool she was.

"Sam…" It was the same voice he had used before, but now the look in his eyes was that of pure desperation. His reddened eyes met hers as he reached out and touched the side of her face. He swallowed hard.

"Martin-"

But as soon as she had uttered his name, he was gone, disappearing into their bedroom. She heard him turn on the water in the bathroom. Not knowing what to do or say, just like always, it seemed, with Martin, she leaned back and allowed the light to wane, finally leaving her in semi-darkness.

She didn't know how long she sat there until she realized that the water had never been turned off- one of those strange phenomena when one notices that the back round noise shouldn't be back round noise at all.

"Martin?" she called into the darkness.

No response.

Her breath quickened immediately as the instinct she so frequently relied upon told her something awful was happening. She leaped from the sofa and ran so quickly, she banged her arm on the doorframe, muttering a curse, she wrenched open the door.

He was standing right under the nozzle and leaning into the wall, the powerful jet of water crashing onto his strained neck, tumbling over his broad shoulders, across his pronounced abs, down along his legs, falling slowly into the drain that swallowed it all.

"Oh god, Martin…"

He looked up at her as she walked closer to him, too afraid to say anything, and terrified to leave him alone.

She opened the door and steam blew out of the shower.

"Don't do this," she whispered, reaching out to him. He gently took her hand and turned it over, palm up. It was the arm she hand banged running into the bathroom, and the center of her forearm was already becoming a deep purple.

"I can't…" His voice was so small, so tired, so painfully pleading. "I can't see you hurt…and _losing _you, Sam…"

He brought her arm to his lips and he kissed the spot. "I can't…"

She didn't say anything. Every single word that came to mind stuck in her throat.

"Don't you understand?"

The water-matted head turned up, and Martin's eyes gazed into hers. "Sam, I-"

He broke off, let out a frustrated grunt and pulled her into the shower, catching her lips in a rough kiss, trying to pour everything into those few moments, everything he ever told her, and everything he wanted to.

She gasped as the hot water quickly soaked her clothes through, but she didn't care. She wrapped her arms around his neck, reciprocating, needing him as much as he needed her.

When she finally had to break the kiss to breathe, he unbuttoned her blouse, pushing it down her shoulders. She crushed her lips to his again, guiding his hands to her pants button, which he quickly undid. Together, the pulled her pants and her underwear off.

He finally rid her of her bra and let his lips trail from her jaw…to her neck…She inhaled sharply as he took her nipple into his mouth, her hands flying to his hair, moving through it.

"Sam…" he murmured, and her legs naturally curved around his waist, positioning herself just above his erection.

"It's okay, Martin," she whispered.

Then the words were over, feeling him slide into her filling her so completely, she called out his name, throwing her head back.

His tongue worked its way around her nipple once, then twice, making her moan into the water falling down over her first and then onto him. He began kneading the other breast, letting his tongue taste the left, filling himself with her essence, trying to memorize her every line.

"Ohh…Martin…"

Her hands found the side of his face, and pulled it up to gaze into his eyes, those deep, dark eyes of his that never failed to entrance her. They were so pleading…it hurt. It hurt her seeing him like this. She couldn't stand that look in his eyes, so she kissed him again, opening her mouth against his, sighing and gasping and moaning into it as thrust into her again and again and again.

With a final push, hitting her G-spot, she cried his name, tightening around him, and pulling him over the edge with her.

After she could see clearly, they slid down the wall of the shower, Martin's back pressed into the wall and hers leaning into his chest, his arms clasped tight around her, so afraid she would slip away at any moment.

Martin pressed his face into the side of hers and breathed in. Gently stroking his hair, she asked, "What is it?"

"I love you, Sam…You know that, don't you? You have to know that."

She reached up and cut off the water at last.

"I know, Marty," she whispered, "I know."


	2. Chapter 2

Through the window of the taxi, all Sam could see was water. That's how hard it was raining. And she knew tonight it would only get worse- the temperature would plummet, and the rain would turn to snow. She would awaken tomorrow to blankets and blankets of snow and…what else? What else?

Not Martin.

_The sun made her snap her eyes shut yet again, it was so bright. Not that she minded. She felt so warm. So soft. So good she couldn't help but let out a little moan and snuggle deeper under the covers and against…She couldn't remember where she was for half a second. She sat bolt upright in a bed that wasn't hers and-_

"_Hey, hey easy there," a gravelly, tired voice said. "C'mere."_

_His fingertips, rough but gentle against her skin, found her cheek and she melted into him. His cherrywood-colored hair, the jutting slope of his chin, his caring eyes, the pressure of his lips on her hair… _

_She was home._

"Where you wanna get off, miss?"

The bearded driver pulled her back from the reverie just in time, and Agent Sam Spade quickly wiped the tears from her eyes. There was a time to break down. There was a time for reflection. The time wasn't now. Carefully, _carefully_, she packed the thoughts into the old, rusty box in her chest and locked it shut.

"Just on the corner, please."

"You got it."

The cab pulled up on the corner, and Sam dug into her purse for the fourteen bucks and the umbrella. Exhaling slowly, she murmured, "Here goes nothing."

**********

"Martin. Hey!"

A rough hand shook him from…he tried to remember what he was doing and couldn't. He hadn't been sleeping…had he? The black leather of the sofa in Jack's office…the open file on the floor testament to his never going home. How could he?

"Morning, sleeping beauty," Jack said, and plopped a bag full of bagels and cream cheese in front of him. "Danny's got your coffee waiting for you downstairs. Get moving."

"Oh, yessir. Sorry, I wasn't- um…"

"Get a bagel and get out of here, Martin."

"Yessir." He took one and turned to go.

"Martin," Jack called, rounding the desk to make a call.

"Sir?"

"We all love Samantha. But we have to keep it together to make sure she gets back, you understand?"

"Yessir."

Nodding as a dismissal, Martin's boss picked up the phone.

"And sir?"

"Yeah?"

"Thanks for letting me…well, sleep here I guess."

Jack swallowed very slowly, replaced the receiver on the dock, and looked Martin straight in the eye. "Agent Fitzgerald…some of us…have to work… harder… to keep it together. Agent Spade means a lot to this team."

"Yessir," Martin muttered, and got the hell out of there. How the hell did _Jack_ know?

"You look like shit, man" was Danny's kind and compassionate morning greeting.

"Well gee thanks, I love you too."

"Shit this is not gonna be fun to drive in," Danny observed, sipping his coffee and motioning Martin to his cup. The rain pounded down onto the concrete outside, and people outside ran under the cover of the building's awning. As usual, Danny had the collar of his black woolen outer-coat turned up to protect his immaculate black suit, and Martin followed his example with his khaki one.

"I'll drive," Martin volunteered, desperate for anything to do, "Where first?"

"I think we should head to Derek Chaplain's place. Yeah?"

"Sounds good."

Harlem it was.

Derek Chaplain's apartment building wedged itself between an old abandoned movie theatre and a godforsaken mini-mart which itself seemed to press up against the wall farthest away from the continuous stream of speed limit-breaking traffic. A bedraggled homeless woman lolled against the railing outside the entrance, an empty Jack Daniel's bottle threatening to slip from her drunken grasp.

"Time to start the day!" Danny exclaimed, putting on his little smirk, and climbed eagerly out of the car. He lived for this job. He thrived on it. Martin wished he still had that, but he had seen too much. Had survived one too many close encounters. He wasn't broken or burnt out. Just…tired. As he and Danny mounted the steps, Martin slipped his uneaten bagel into the woman's open hand.

Derek Chaplain, 28, had no previous record, but his truck was the first bread crumb on the trail of hell- a witness claimed they had seen about a dozen women loaded into a Coca Cola truck, with a number corresponding to his name. Martin doubted Chaplain actually was involved- who would be stupid enough to use their own truck to traffic women?- but the team agreed he might give some good insight, might have noticed something off about the truck. They were fishing. But they needed something. Anything.

The inside of Chaplain's apartment building told the same story as the outside, only somehow, with more trash. The halls reeked of pot smoke and cat litter, the paint was chipped and picked at, the sickly grey carpets pulled away from the floor at the corners, and the buzz of five or six failing TVs could be heard through the thin doors. When they reached room 401, where Chaplain was listed, Martin knocked on the door.

Nothing.

Another knock.

Nothing.

"Open up, Mr. Chaplain," he called. He raised his voice a little and tried again. There was movement, slow and trudging from inside, and as the sound drew nearer, at last the door swung open to reveal a thin black man in jeans and a crisp white collared Oxford. A ring glittered just so under the pale light from the hallway on his trembling hand. Danny flashed his badge.

"I don't know where my son is, sir," he informed them in a deep voice, "But I'm Derek's father."

"Grampy!" a child's voice squealed from inside.

"I'm comin', Leelee, hang on," he answered, "You gentlemen are welcome to come in, I'm just whipping up some breakfast."

Martin and Danny shared a glance before they followed the seventy-some man into the tiny apartment where he loaded up a plate full of pancakes from the griddle and began cutting up some strawberries with a steak knife. He motioned for them to take a seat at the home-made looking table on the home-made looking chairs, and asked, "So what can I do for you gentlemen?"

"This is Agent Fitzgerald, I'm Agent Taylor. We're looking for your son so we can ask him a few questions regarding his job."

"As a truck driver? Sweetie, your pancakes are ready," Mr. Chaplain called, and the most beautiful little girl Martin had ever seen came bounding in, braids aflutter, in a pink little dress, and the brightest smile. She was maybe 4.

"Thanks, Grampy!"

"No problem, honey, what are you watching in there?" he asked, mirroring her smile.

"Spongebob!" Just then she caught sight of the two strangers in her kitchen. "Grampy who're they?"

"Aw, honey, these are jus' two of Grampy's friends who jus' wanna ask some questions bout Daddy, nothin' to worry your pretty little head over, okay?" He handed her a plate of pancakes, the fruit arranged so they made a smiley face.

"Hi," she said timidly, looking over at the two men.

"Hi, sweetheart," Martin greeted in return. Danny smiled and nodded.

"Now go on and watch Spongebob and make sure you eat all your breakfast, honey."

"Okay, Grampy."

Leelee trotted back to the TV.

"That's my baby girl. Derek's daughter," Mr. Chaplain explained as soon as he deemed she was sufficiently out of earshot and absorbed in her show. "Listen the best person to ask about Derek's job is Derek, and he's at work right now. Deliverin' up in uh…Greenville, I think. Far as I know. Called me up two days ago, said he need me to watch Leelee for a coupla days. What's goin' on here?"

Martin adjusted his tie. "We're really not at liberty to discuss that, sir, but we can tell you that your son could have some valuable information to share with us regarding a case we're working on."

"Derek in some kinda trouble?"

"We don't think so, Mr. Chaplain, but we do need to speak with him as soon as possible." Mr. Chaplain inclined his head ever so slightly. "Is it alright if we ask you a few questions?"

He shrugged. "Shoot."

"Is that usual? That your son asks you to watch Leelee?"

"Aw yeah, sure," he said, lowering himself onto a chair.

"For the same amount of time?" Martin removed his notebook and a pen from the inner pockets of his blazer.

"Jus' about, but the company he works for asks for all kinds of jobs. Some take a few hours, some five days. I just fill in when he needs me."

"And when did he leave for this job?"

"Yesterday morning."

"I see. And what about Leelee's mom?" Danny asked.

Mr. Chaplain's face darkened. "Aw hell, I dunno. That-" he broke off, and seemed to mentally revise his words. "That _harlot_ ain't been around here since she las' came over tryin' to get Leelee back."

"And when was that?" Martin asked, jotting the information down.

"Umm…I 'speck about three, four months ago."

"And what's her name?"

"Natasha Greene."

"Where can we find her?" Danny asked.

"I honestly couldn't tell you where she lives, but Derek mentioned her workin' down near Clason Point or somethin'."

"Before he left yesterday, was there anything unusual in his behavior? Did he seem nervous, upset, anything?"

Mr. Chaplain's wrinkled face, curved downwards in a frown.

"He seem a little uptight, yeah."

"Did he say why?"

"Well he got a phone call, the other night when I came over for dinner. Got pretty heated, yellin' into the phone and everythin'. Scared Leelee dang near to death."

"What was that about?"

"Well, I asked, and he jus' said it was Natasha stirrin' up mess agin, and he ain't said nothin' no more about it. Other than that, everythin's been fine. I mean, ain't nothin' goin' great around here, but we makin' it. Together. Derek's a good man, and he'd do anythin' for his baby girl in there. I guarantee you, if you think he did somethin' wrong you better think twice. He'd never risk bein' taken away from her or her bein' taken away from him. Not never. " He stood up. "Listen gentlemen, I gotta get my grandbaby off to school, so unless you have any more questions, I'm gonna have to get goin'…"

"Oh, of course, of course." Martin and Danny stood up. "Thank you so much for your cooperation, Mr. Chaplain."

Leelee materialized in the door with a HelloKitty backpack slung over her shoulder. She beamed at Martin and then waved. Martin waved back, not being able to stop the smile from spreading across his thin lips, shameful in the face of her full ones, so pretty over her sparkly white baby teeth.

"Don't forget your workbook, honey, it's on your desk," Mr. Chaplain said gently.

"Oh!" She ran back into the recesses of the apartment.

"It's Benjamin to you, Agent Fitzgerald. My granddaughter likes you, and that warrants a helluva lot. You need to know anythin' else, you jus' come on back."

"Thank you, sir- I mean, Benjamin."

Benjamin Chaplain hobbled over to the door and opened it for them. "And Agent Fitzgerald, if you can, at all, make sure you nail Natasha for _somethin'_."

Martin and Danny laughed.

"I'll tell you what, sir, we'll try," Danny said. "Thanks for your help."

**********

"I'm looking for Ricky, Charles sent me," Sam recited to the manager of the club, and only then did he open the door. A shiver crept up her spine as the slick, oily- haired man led her to the back room, his chain tattoo spanning from wrist to wrist. Her red pleather jacket stuck in all the wrong places to her sweaty, damp skin. Her cheap lipstick felt uncomfortable on pampered lips. She coughed. _Must be coming down with something._ _Well, at least the druggie part'll be easy to play. _She had a bad feeling about this, like stepping into a lion's den.

_Well, you are._ _Time to put on the mask, Samantha. Tara. Tara Hawkings._

Creeper knocked on the door, and left her alone, coming back the exact way she came, without a word, without a second glance.

The door swung open to reveal a tall, Asian man (she knew he was Thai only because of information from the briefing) in a jet-black tight shirt and suit pants.

"Hey sweetheart," he said warmly with a strong but understandable accent, "I'm Ricky. Come on in."

She followed him into a room outfitted like a living room, will a desk and chair, and a few worn sofas all around, five women total sitting on them. All relatively attractive, all about her age. Two smoking.

"We have a new addition to the team, girls, this is- well you can introduce yourself."

"My name's Tara. Tara Hawkings."

Only one woman even acknowledged her existence.

"Let's get started shall we?" He extracted a camera from the bottom drawer of the desk.


	3. Chapter 3

Hey guys. I know this isn't much, and I've been gone for quite a while, but school was killin' me! I promise to try and be more diligent over the summer!!! Much love to my fans, thanks so much for the support guys- enjoy!

Across the room, Sam watched as one by one, the girls shed clothing until they were down to bras and thongs- Ricky worked the camera and the poses like a Playboy photographer, and someone might have been fooled walking in- that it _was_ for Playboy, and totally legal- were it not for the creepily ordinary backdrop, shady location, and the sleazy, icky vibe Ricky gave off. Oh this was going to _suck_. Really, _really_ suck. All she could hope for was that Ricky's boss was less of a creeper. _Woah, dream big._

"Tara, you're our last one," Ricky called, after taking the last five shots of the only other blonde with a Polaroid- something he hadn't one for the brunettes and the redhead and stashing them in the desk drawer. "We're ready for you."

Who the hell "we" was became apparent as the guy who had led her back here stepped into the room, settling quietly in the corner, his bare shoulder resting against the door. He had more piercings than she could count…As for Ricky he was…okay-looking. Good-looking actually. His muscles bulged underneath the shirt tucked neatly into a silver Armani belt. His hair was messy in just the right way, his features chiseled and near perfection. If Sam could have ignored the way he eyeballed all of them like they were something to eat- or worse- she might have been attracted to him. As it were…

She took a deep breath. _Let's do this. Tara._

Smirking, she tore off her shirt- none of that coy bullshit the other girls were pulling and just before she slid onto the desk, slid her hand across Ricky's chest, making him grin.

_Ew. Focus, Sam. Tara._

He started taking pictures immediately as she ran her hands through her hair, unbuttoned her black jeans, and pushed them own. Scary how good at this she was. And how did she know she was good? Ricky was drooling.

As with the other blonde, he finished off with five or six Polaroid pics, but hers he stuck in a manila envelope, and tucked neatly under his arm.

Sam grinned. "What, those for your personal stash?"

"They're for my boss. He's interested in a personal…more permanent…escort."

"Oh?" Just as her resources had told her. These girls were here thinking they were auditioning for a high-end escort service- the ones that paid big bucks, near 20K for a weekend- but really, they got taken to the "all-expenses-paid" brothel to get shipped off to the Golden Triangle to be sold into slavery. Sex slavery. And it was easy to keep it hush-hush because the prostitution was illegal enough. These women were desperate, and looking for a break… in exactly the wrong place.

"Yes, and I think you're…just his speed."

She pouted, and touched the collar of his shirt. "Is that all I am?"

The corner of his mouth twitched up. "We've got to get going, Ms. Hawkings. Why don't you follow Oliver to the truck."

**********

Danny tossed Martin a sub from the hole-in-the-wall deli across the street as they slumped back into the FBI-issue car. Natasha Greene had been a complete bust. According to her, with a flick of her fake nails and a swish of her fake hair, she had been with one "Antoine" on Sunday night. When Danny had enquired as to who exactly he was, she replied, "The reason me and Derek split." What a charmer. The six other women in the salon Greene worked in agreed that she had served her last client around 8 and waited until Antoine Killiks had arrived to pick her up.

"You know," Danny said after swallowing a particularly large mouthful of bread and meat, "I just don't like the feel of the Killiks guy."

"Yeah, I know what you mean," Martin agreed.

"It's just Greene was way too reluctant to give up a name, and the others were way too eager to back her up."

Martin nodded. Nobody ever wanted to snitch, but an even more interesting phenomenon was after someone _did_, what happened. Killiks obviously wasn't up for the Man of the Year Award.

"Have you eaten anything today?"

"What? Oh."

He hadn't even unwrapped his sandwich.

"You okay?"

"Yeah, sure. Call Vivian and ask her to run his name through the system."

Antoine Leroy Killiks, 34, and on probation, had been in and out of juvy and jail since his mother kicked him out of the house at age 14. His track record ranged from aggravated assault of an employer to armed robbery. His last crime had been in '07, and he got off light because-

"He got his ass beat like he should have," Vivian finished flatly. "This guy is bad news all around."

'Toine "The King" Killiks made number three on the list of inquiries.


End file.
